The End of Paralysis
by godcalldinsick
Summary: Kirsten trailed off, noticing their foster son’s lack of response, and looked to Sandy who wished he had answers, but didn’t. They hadn’t told them anything and Ryan had begun to tremble.
1. Prologue

An AU around the time "The Brothers Grim" would have happened.**

* * *

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**The End of Paralysis**

_Prologue

* * *

__I never really dreamed of heaven much until we put him in the ground._

--Bright Eyes, "Easy/Lucky/Free"

* * *

Ryan couldn't believe how cold his brother's skin was. It was so cold and it looked blue, almost grey, but he supposed that was normal. It was a corpse, after all. 

Ryan kicked his brother's hand, watched the lack of resistance.

Limp.

Cold.

Dead.

In a few days, it would be buried. It would be under the dirt with the worms and insects that would survive off of what was left until it was nothing more than a few bones in a wooden box. _It it it_. Like a pencil or a button or a bottle. A non-gender-specific object because his brother, Trey, wasn't a boy anymore and he was never a man and now he was nothing.

Ryan wondered if it smelled. He couldn't smell it. His nose was stuffy.

"Hey, kid, come on now. Move away."

A firm hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him away from it. Ryan didn't help, planting his feet firmly on the ground, looking down at it; at Trey's remains.

"It was my brother," he told the hand and even to his own ears, the words sounded too uncharacteristically conversational to have been emitted from Ryan Atwood's mouth.

"I'm sorry, son. Please…let's get you away from here. Where are your parents?"

"It…it doesn't have a head, anymore," Ryan replied thoughtfully, sniffling. His nose was itchy. "It used to have a head."

Ryan knew he was being silly. It still had a head, but the head didn't have a back. The back of the head decorated the wall and part of the floor like a recklessly-hung tapestry. The Cohens wouldn't like it in their house.

"He's in shock," the hand called to the rest of the room. It didn't move, because it didn't care that he was in shock. Not the hand, but the 'it'. The 'it' was shock personified. "Son, what's your name? Who are your parents?"

"I'm Ryan," Ryan answered, scratching his nose absently. "My mother will be up in a few hours, I think. What time is it?"

"It's three am, kid," the hand told him, gently pushing him away from it. But Ryan walked backwards, his eyes never leaving his brother's red afterthoughts.

"Yeah, a few hours, then," Ryan assured him. Mom was when the sun rose into the sky and killed the night.

"What are you doing here?"

Ryan didn't know how to answer that question. He wanted to tell the hand a lot of things. Like how his mother wasn't a certain time of day that came and left within an hour. No, his mother wasn't a fleeting moment and his father wasn't in jail and his real brother wasn't a mess on the floor, but a boy sleeping in his bed dreaming of the season of the living.

"He was free today," Ryan said. "He got out…but now he's this." The hand had a face and Ryan looked at it. "I called the ambulance as soon as I saw him."

The hand patted him hesitantly. "You did good, kid."

Ryan smiled. "I try. Will you call Sandy? He's probably worried."

"Who's Sandy, kid?"

"My guardian," Ryan explained patiently. "I was supposed to go to bed because I wanted to go to school tomorrow because I have a test and Kirsten said I could only go if I was better, but then Trey called and he sounded really scared…"

The hand felt his forehead.

"You're running a fever…"

"I know, I just told you," Ryan said, feeling slightly irritated. "I probably won't get to go to school tomorrow now. I'll be behind..." Ryan looked accusingly at the still body on the ground. "It was always messing things up for me…"

The hand paused. "It'll be okay, kid. We'll call Sandy. Can you give us his number?"

* * *

Sandy Cohen rushed into the police station, his wife at his heels, eyes darting around at an alarming rate until they landed on his young charge. Ryan looked so young and lost, sitting in a chair with his hair in his eyes, his nose red from the nasty cold he had been harboring for the past week. 

"Ryan!" Sandy gasped, running to the teenager. "God, Ryan…"

"Sweetie, are you okay?" Kirsten asked immediately, searching the warmth of the boy's face with a small hand. "Baby, you're sick, why did you…?"

Kirsten trailed off, noticing their foster son's lack of response, and looked to Sandy who wished he had answers, but didn't. They hadn't told them anything and Ryan had begun to tremble.

* * *

TBC... 


	2. Zonked

**The End of Paralysis**

_Chapter Two - Zonked_

* * *

Seth wasn't sure when exactly or why exactly Ryan had started to come into his room at night, but he knew that while at first he felt uncomfortable and unsure, a large part of him warmed at the idea of being needed.

Two o'clock in the morning, every morning following Trey's bloody demise, Ryan would come in without explanation and get into Seth's bed and fall asleep. It reminded Seth of when he was six and afraid of the rain, how he would wedge himself between his parents and refuse to admit that he was afraid; because at six, Seth had been a big boy.

And because of this, Seth never pressured his foster brother into explaining. It didn't mean that he didn't have the desire to, because he did. Every morning when he woke up and found Ryan curled at the other end of the bed, he bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, silently repeating over and over again:

_IamnotSethCohenIamnotSethCohenIamnotSethCohenIamnotSethCohen. _

Because Seth Cohen was self-absorbed and curious to the point of recklessness and didn't know when it was time to shut the fuck up. That was why when he woke up in the mornings he wasn't Seth Cohen.

The nighttime tradition had been going on about a week when Seth woke up with a start at six-thirty in the morning to see Ryan flinching and crying in his slumber, mumbling the word "no" over and over again. Seth wondered briefly if he should get his mom or his dad, but quickly waved the question away. Ryan came to him during the night for a reason.

"Hey, bro…"

Shit, he sounded like a frog. Ryan clearly had no qualms with spreading his germs around on Seth's sheets.

He cleared his throat and tried again, "Ry, it's okay."

He touched the other boy's arm, but drew away immediately when said arm lashed out in a violent retaliation.

"Ryan!" said Seth, his tone slightly more urgent.

Ryan's lids flew open.

"Seth?" he croaked, bringing a now calm hand to his face to rub at his eyes.

"Yeah, man. You were having some kind of zany nightmare. Thought I'd wake you."

Ryan was silent for a minute.

"Thanks."

"No problem-o, bro. Hey, you look tired. Like, _zonked_."

"Seth, don't say 'zonked'."

"It's my new word, buddy. I can't help but say it. If I could say zonked twenty-four hours a day and still communicate properly, I would do it in an instant. Only, not really an instant, because you know…twenty-four hours a day every day is not really an instant, but a series of continuous instances that never end. I mean like, let me try it for a minute. Zonked zonked zonked zonked zon-"

A brutal coughing fit aborted his mission.

"That wasn't even five seconds, Seth."

"It's not my fault you gave me your cold," Seth shot back, collapsing back against his pillows. He turned his head and observed Ryan's red nose and flushed pallor; the cheek that was still bruised from where Dawn had slapped him at the funeral. "Speaking of which, why are _you_ still sick? It's been like…two weeks or something."

Ryan shrugged. "Maybe I'm going through a phase of being perpetually ill."

"Ah, yes. For Ryan Atwood, illness is a phase. Like the leather wrist cuff."

"Hey. The cuff wasn't a phase. It was a way of being."

Seth snorted. "Then why don't you wear it anymore?"

Ryan sighed, grasped the edge of the comforter and pulled it up to his neck. "I don't want to be that way anymore, I guess."

"Then it was a phase."

Ryan turned on his side, away from Seth. "Yeah, whatever. I guess."

Seth waited for a minute to see if his brother had anything else to say, but quickly realized that that was wishful thinking. It was amazing that Ryan had said as much as he had.

"I'm going to drown myself in cold medicine and try to get us off school. You should probably sleep more or you'll be cranky."

Seth carefully got out of the bed and walked quietly towards the door.

"Cranky is not one of my moods," he heard Ryan mumble before he was in the hallway, and he smiled softly to himself before shuffling down to the kitchen where a wet-haired, freshly-surfed Sandy Cohen was doing what Sandy Cohens did: cream-cheesing a bagel.

"Ryan in your room?" his dad immediately asked. Seth knew that his father had been checking the poolhouse every morning since day one, because he would have never told anyone that Ryan had started to come into his room at night.

"Yeah, we're sick. And as such, we don't have to go to school, do we?"

Sandy Cohen frowned and set his bagel carefully on a plate. Seth found a large hand on his forehead.

"You're not warm. You've got the sniffles, but you're not warm."

"Dad!" Seth groaned. "The sniffles? God, how old do you think I am? Three? Besides Ryan gave me his cold and you were all adamant about Ryan not going to school when he first got this mean case of the…the…"

"Sniffles?" Sandy offered, returning his attention to his bagel.

Seth groaned. "Okay, fine, you got me there. Anyway, I don't feel well."

"Don't whine."

"Well, I don't. And Ryan was throwing up last night." Seth felt like a narc. Well, he guessed drugs and cops weren't involved, but he liked the word. Narc. Narcotics. Souded like neurotic. Neurotic like Seth.

Sandy dropped his bagel on the plate. "He was? When?"

"After dinner. Like, right after." Seeing his father's eyes grow wide, Seth quickly continued, "Like, I don't think it's…you know, like that. I mean, Ryan's not exactly worried about his weight. He said…he said he didn't want to eat it and you know how Mom got really mad and sort of made him. I don't think he forced himself to, you know… throw up or anything." The kitchen was silent for a moment. "I think he just…couldn't keep it down."

Sandy nodded slowly, clasped a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "Did he tell you why?"

Seth shook his head and shrugged. "I can guess, though."

"What's your guess?"

Seth fidgeted, shifted from foot to foot. He hated admitting he thought like this. "What were we eating last night, Dad?"

"Lasagna."

"Yeah, lasagna. And…putting yourself in Ryan's shoes, what could lasagna look like?"

Sandy went pale and his hand unconsciously squeezed Seth's shoulder.

"That's a…possible reason." Sandy tipped the bagel off of the plate, over the edge of the island, into the trash. Seth felt a twinge of guilt for ruining his father's morning routine.

"So, um…do we have to go to school?" Seth desperately wanted to change the subject.

"No. Well, I say you don't have to. You have to ask your mother."

"Ask your mother what?" Kirsten asked, striding into the kitchen in a business suit, heading in the direction of the coffeepot. Seth thought she looked like Ryan, minus the sick; tired, weary.

"Ry and I are sick. Can we stay home?"

A small hand grazed over his forehead.

"You're not warm."

"But he's got the sniffles," Sandy pointed out.

Seth groaned. "You don't want me and Ryan to infect the other kids, do you, Mom? Think of the children!"

Ryan chose that moment to come downstairs, mumble a good morning, and head for the poolhouse.

"Where are you going, bro?"

"Poolhouse. Have to get ready for school."

"Ry-an! I was working the Seth Cohen/Ryan Atwood-get-out-of-school-free card. Don't ruin it."

"I've only been back a couple of days, Seth. I can't miss anymore. You can miss. I'll bring your homework home." With that, Ryan was out of the house.

The three Cohens exchanged glances.

"He was throwing up last night, honey. He couldn't keep his food down."

This was the part of the morning when Sandy and Kirsten Cohen pretended Seth Cohen wasn't in the room. This was when Seth listened to them talk about Ryan and about how Ryan need to see a therapist, but wouldn't. Then the argument would start about whether or not they should force him to, because that was their duty as guardians, as parents, but they also didn't want to hurt him. But he needs to talk, Sandy. But he needs to trust us, honey. We need to find a gentle, but firm way of making him go, because he needs to get better and we love him and want him better so we're doing it for his own good even if there is a little hurt along the way. But he'll resent us…

"Ryan and I are sick," Seth interrupted them, his head in the fridge. "We're sick and there's no orange juice. What kind of parents are you?"

The kitchen fell silent.

Seth didn't mind hurting his parents so much. He never had. They were obligated to be hurt. And sometimes, he needed to hurt someone so he could be extra nice to Ryan.

Fifteen minutes later, Ryan walked in showered and dressed for school. Kirsten hovered over him, feeling his forehead, cheeks, hands, shoving tissues in his pockets for just in case. Seth sat on a stool in his robe, eating cereal. He wouldn't be going to school that day.

"Come on, kid. I'll drop you off," Sandy said, putting an arm over his foster son's shoulder. Ryan nodded and allowed himself to be led out of the kitchen, out of the house, into the car, and away from home.

"I'll buy some orange juice," said Kirsten quietly to Seth. "He shouldn't still be sick."

"It was raining at the funeral. It probably made it worse," Seth mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. "Hey, I have an idea. Let's not eat Italian for a couple of months. Or anything with red in it."

The Kirsten nodded, settling her hand against her warm mug.

"Do you know why he sleeps with you, yet?"

Seth glared at his mother. "Mom, Ryan doesn't 'sleep with' me." The Kirsten returned the glare. "I guess I'm the only brother he has left. He doesn't want to wake up one day and find the back of my head on the wall."

"Seth, don't talk like that."

"Why? It's what he saw, isn't it? How's he ever going to get better if we can't accept that he's seen things that he shouldn't have seen? I guess its kind of like when I was eight years old and saw _Child's Play_ without your permission and had that dream about my eyes being skewered out and when I told you about it, you cringed and said, 'Seth, don't say skewered'. But I saw it in my dream and I guess it doesn't matter now that it felt like it was real, because Ryan saw something a lot like it that actually was real. And he can't erase it, can he?"

His mom looked at him, startled, afraid, her eyes watering.

"I don't know what I'm saying right now, and I can't joke about it like I normally would…but, Mom…Ry. These days he's like a zombie." Seth coughed into his cereal. "And not the cool kind that eats the brains of dumb blondes."

"I should have…protected him. He should have never seen that…"

"You're trying, Mom. If Dad hadn't held you back you would have bloodied up Dawn's face at the funeral." Seth looked thoughtful. "That was pretty cool, by the way."

Kirsten smiled. "Thanks."

Seth gave her a small smile, sniffled. "I think you should get Ryan to talk to someone."

"You think?"

"I love him, but if he keeps up this sleeping habit… my romantic life? As good as history." Kirsten frowned. "Not that I have a love life that involves a bed," Seth added hastily. "Just…you know. Saying."

"Right."

Seth got up and began to climb the stairs to his room but stopped when his mother called his name.

"What, Mom?"

"I'm glad you're looking out for him, Seth."

Seth shrugged. "He's the only brother I have left, too."

"He was the only one you had to begin with."

"It totally doesn't matter."

Seth went upstairs and made a beeline for the bathroom. He knew, after a minute of registering its cleanly state that Ryan had had to use it in the night, or in the morning, or sometime before Seth had been there. Ryan had obviously wiped the counter clean of Seth's stray hairs and toothpaste misadventures. He'd missed a few spots of dry blood on the floor, though.

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**TBC...**


	3. Substitutions in the Family Unit

**A/N: Beachtree, the cuts from Seth shaving was the original plan. Then I decided this tactic would be better...god knows why.**

**Anyway, I want to thank you all for your wonderful reviews. I'm trying to get this to go somewhere, but I admit I'm kind of losing interest, probably because I have no idea where to take it. Eh, I'll figure something out. Eventually.**

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The End of Paralysis

**Chapter Three: Substitutions in the Family Unit**

* * *

That night Ryan slumped, exhausted, over the toilet. He didn't have the strength to wipe the trickling sweat from his face or the tears of strain from his eyes. It'd been a while since he'd been able to keep his food down.

He stayed there, still, and closed his eyes. He tried not to think. If he thought too much, for too long, it always came back to his brother's head on the wall.

Or the bruise on his cheek.

Or the cut on his foot.

"Hey, kid. That's not a very nice resting place is it?"

Two arms pulled him away from the bowl, onto a warm shoulder, and he heard the toilet flush.

There was a hand on his back. He started and pulled away.

"Easy, easy…" Sandy's voice soothed and Ryan heard running water before the feeling of a cool cloth against his face. "We need to take you to the doctor, don't we?"

Ryan shuddered and tried to pull away again. The words were patronizing and this was Sandy. Sandy was being patronizing. Sandy thought he was small, weak, helpless and his son, Seth, thought Ryan was a time bomb.

_Tic tic fucking tic._

Ryan coughed and gagged and cringed when the remains of his stomach splattered across his guardian's chest. Sandy didn't let him go, because Sandy never did.

Sandy was all-encompassing, all-knowing. Sandy was God of the boys of the Cohen household. Father, father, father…

Ryan heard the poolhouse door open.

"Ry, are you okay? Dad, is he okay?" Seth.

"He'll be fine, son." Sandy.

"Go. Away." Ryan.

Footsteps retreating, then turning, then walking back. Shift, shift. Up one, down on. The Seth-Cohen-is-repentant dance.

"Look, Ryan, I'm-"

"GO AWAY."

Although it wasn't actually a yell, the rage glittering in Ryan's voice made the croak deafening, demanding, not-to-be-unheard. Footsteps retreating. Door closing.

"Kid, I know you're angry, but Seth was just worried about you. You've been through so much lately…"

Ryan used his remaining strength to push Sandy away. He couldn't listen to this, couldn't listen to Sandy defend Seth. He'd rather crawl away on his hands and knees than be subjected to this bullshit. Sandy didn't know what it was like. Didn't know what it was like to have to throw your pride out the window every night so you could stalk up to your foster brother's room because you were too goddamned pathetic to sleep alone now that your real brother was dead. No, he didn't know what it was like, thinking you had someone left to confide in, to take you in because they just wanted to. Someone who trusted you as completely as you did them.

_Hey, Ryan, if you had a tattoo, where would it be?_

Ryan thought it had just been one of Seth's whacky what-if questions until Seth had pointed to his arm and said, "What about there?" and talked about how cool it would look there and then, thinking he was cool, thinking he was stealth, said, "Let me see your arm."

Why, Ryan had asked, because he wasn't in the mood for a hand-drawn Seth Cohen original on his arm and Seth was like, just do it and Ryan had said no. Ryan had said no.

Seth Cohen was a lover, not a fighter, Ryan had always mused. That is, until he had found himself tackled by a scrawny mass of seventeen-year-old boy, his shirtsleeves being tugged up so Seth could get a good look at his undefiled skin.

_What the hell, Seth?_

_Oh, Ryan, thank God_.

"Where _did_ the blood come from?" Sandy asked now as Ryan clenched his fists and his jaw and breathed deeply, his body slack against the bathroom wall.

Ryan looked at him with tired eyes and nodded towards his own foot. It was always the darkest of the dark when he left his bed for Seth's. Sometimes he missed things on the floor. Sometimes he would knock his toe against the nightstand, or stand on a stray textbook or get his foot caught on a carelessly tossed aside article of clothing. This particular time which had caused oh so much controversy he had actually made it outside with no blunders.

Then he had stepped on some broken glass by the pool - unseen and forgotten remnants of the clumsy dropping of a Snapple bottle two days earlier.

He told Sandy this.

Sandy's mouth made an 'O' shape, but no sound came out. They sat in silence for a long time and after a while, Ryan allowed Sandy to touch him again.

Finally, Sandy said, "I guess we should get you some slippers, huh kid?"

* * *

"He hates me," Seth told Summer. 

"Cohen, _The Valley_ is on and you're still talking. I just might hate you, too."

"It was completely and utterly inexcusable. I mean I like…raped his arm, or something. I mean, Summer, I _tackled_ the guy. It wasn't like, 'Gee whiz, Ry, are you cutting?' 'Golly gee, Seth, no.' It was totally rape."

"Did he say 'no'?" Summer sounded bored.

Seth thought for a moment, sniffled.

"I think he might have."

"You're a sick bastard, Cohen," the brunette girl assured him in a voice laced with disinterest. Seth sneezed. Summer wrinkled her nose. "Ew! In more ways than one. Why are you here again?" Her eyes widened as she looked at her boyfriend's hand. "Gross, Cohen, is that snot?"

A tissue box was thrown at Seth's head, along with the words, "Use those. And wash your hands or don't touch me."

"I wasn't at school today," Seth whined, burying his head into the crook of her tiny neck. "I wanted to see my Summer."

He felt her hand, little and condescending, patting his arm, but it rested there for just a second and the light touch was enough to assure him that she still loved him. He had interrupted her TV-watching and infested her room with his sick germs, but she still loved him. Did Ryan still love him? Summer didn't tell Seth to go away…well, she did, but she didn't really mean it. Ryan obviously meant it. Ryan had shouted it, his voice adamant, almost desperate. Go away.

Seth had been told to go away many times before. He knew he was an annoying kid with a big mouth and a slippery tongue, and as such, he had an extensive past of "go away" and undoubtedly, an equally extensive future. Kids at school had told him to go away, his girlfriend had told him to go away, hell….his own parents had told him to get lost on more than one occasion. Even though that was probably a good thing, because they had always looked rather flustered and…ew, Seth didn't even want to go there.

But this was _Ryan_.

Ryan was his best friend, his brother, his partner in crime backslash world domination backslash zany hijinks and Seth had just ruined his only carefree relationship with an almost ludicrous accusation.

"Maybe you should go talk to him?"

Summer's suggestion brought Seth out of his reverie. He was surprised that she had taken her eyes away from her show long enough to take notice that he was elsewhere, but then he realized that the end credits were on.

Ah, yes. That was his Summer. Best season ever.

"Maybe…I'm not sure if he would listen to me." He jumped when he felt a powerful blow of a slap make contact with his arm. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Don't be a dumbass, Cohen. Chino loves you. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see that…well, a pair of working eyes. Because you know…there's always blind people." Summer paused, as if wondering if that had been a politically correct statement and then she shrugged, obviously deciding that she didn't care if it had been or not. "And loving you? Not easy. Well, it is easy, but you can be a bit much sometimes. And he _lives_ with you! Like, I can't even wrap my mind around how someone can live with you and not beat you into a bloody pulp…I mean, and Chino! We all know how he likes to converse with his fists, Cohen. Let's think about that for a minute-"

"Let's not!" Seth interjected. "I get it, I get it. I'll talk to him."

"Does that mean you're leaving?" Summer asked excitedly.

"Summer, the show's over!"

"Yeah, but the longer you're in here, the more time you have to get my room all…germy and Cohen-y. So go home."

"Well, you'd have to drive me…"

Another blow to the arm. "You didn't drive yourself?"

"Ow! No…my mom drove me. She said she didn't want me driving while I was sick."

"Cohen…it's a cold."

"She's overprotective!" Seth shot back defensively. "So…can you give me a ride?"

* * *

Kirsten washed a dish before inserting it into one of the dishwasher racks. Double the clean. Sandy was still out in the poolhouse with Ryan. Had been for about an hour now. Seth was at Summer's. The house was quiet and kind of cold. 

She wondered what it must be like to be Ryan. Sad, she knew. Lonely. Constantly uncomfortable. Kirsten was constantly uncomfortable, too.

She took a sip of wine and it warmed her momentarily.

Before Ryan, it had been the three of them. Sandy, Seth, and herself. She would constantly think about the similarities between Seth and Sandy, and wondered where she fell into the equation. Sandy plus Kirsten equals Seth. Sandy and Seth were both dark-haired and they both liked to talk. They both loathed Newport black-tie gatherings and they both loved Ryan immediately.

It had taken Kirsten a while, but she eventually realized that Ryan was the missing piece. If she were Sandy, Ryan would be Seth. He had just come to her damaged; not bloody-out-of-the-womb damaged, but bloody-from-some-junkie's-fist damaged. And Kirsten just didn't know how she felt about that.

The night he had found Trey, Kirsten had wrapped her arms around Ryan and rocked him to sleep. He hadn't cried, just sat motionless in her arms, his eyes open but empty and she had known that he was somewhere else. She had stayed with him, fallen asleep with him in his bed, and when she had opened her eyes, he had been gone.

At the time, she had been scared, afraid that he had gone over the edge, but she and Sandy had checked every room in the house and finally found him in the fetal position in Seth's bed.

That's when she realized that this wasn't about mothers, but brothers and she never showed it, but a large part of her wanted it not to be about brothers, but mothers.

Kirsten took another sip of wine.

Ryan still had a bruise on his cheek. She had decked Dawn at the funeral. Everyone, including herself, had been surprised. Ryan was hers. Not Dawn's. Dawn didn't get to hurt Ryan anymore.

Kirsten and Dawn both had blond hair and liked the drink.

"Kirsten?" Sandy stepped in, Ryan at his feet. "Is Seth here?"

"I took him over to Summer's. Ryan, sweetheart, do you think you can keep some soup down? I'll make you some soup…"

But Ryan was shaking his head and Sandy was leading him to the barstool. "You should eat something. I'll man the stove. I mean, you're already sick enough without Kirsten botching up something from a can…"

"Sandy!"

But Ryan cracked a small smile and that made it somewhat worth it, so Kirsten settled for smoothing back his blonde hair and feeling his skin for the slightest temperature variation and planting small kisses on his cheeks and forehead. She was delighted when he didn't pull away.

"He stepped on some leftover glass from that Snapple bottle Seth dropped yesterday," Sandy told his wife, setting a pot on the stove. "That's what the blood on the floor was about."

"We should sue the Snapple lady for physical and emotional damage," Kirsten joked.

"She's on Celebrity Fit Club," Ryan mumbled. "I don't think she's the Snapple lady anymore."

"Kid, can you handle chicken broth?" Sandy asked from the pantry.

Ryan wrinkled his nose. Kirsten laughed.

"Oh, I think he can."

Ryan opened his mouth to argue, but that's when they heard the front door opening. A few seconds later, Seth was in the kitchen, looking wearily from Sandy at the stove, to Kirsten to Ryan.

"Hey, fam," he said quietly.

"Hey, kiddo," Sandy replied, reaching a hand over to pat his son on the shoulder. Seth flinched.

"Easy, Dad. I'm fragile. And Summer hit me a couple of times and it really hurt."

"Kinky."

"Dad, ew."

Kirsten smiled at the lighthearted exchange, unconsciously running a hand once more through Ryan's hair, stifling a smile when he rested his head on her shoulder. Trey had left his little brother to walk in on a gruesome scene, but Kirsten couldn't help but reflect that the purpose it had served kind of resembled that of a meat-hammer's. It was a tenderizer. Ryan was tender now, fragile and vulnerable, and more willing to relax into her embrace. It made her ill to admit it, but she liked him better this way.

"Ry?" Seth asked hopefully.

Ryan didn't respond, didn't look at Seth.

Kirsten watched her son fidget for a few minutes before asking, "Mom, do we have any Nyquil? I feel really gross. Like gross to the point where if I sneezed, I'd fill this whole kitchen with snot and that includes whatever Dad's making in that pot. Hey, btw, what is that?"

"B.T.W.?" Sandy asked, looking hilariously befuddled.

"By the way," Ryan answered from Kirsten's shoulder. "Seth says too many words to speak them sometimes. And I don't want the chicken broth anymore."

"Well, at least he can talk about me," Seth said, his voice on the brink of bitter. "That's a step forward. And why would you want chicken broth in the first place?"

Ryan remained silent as Ryans tend to do.

"Nyquil's in the pantry, sweetheart," Kirsten interjected before things could get even more tense. "Don't take too much."

"What am I? Seven?" Seth grumbled.

By the end of the night, Seth was blissfully passed out in his bed, a quarter of the chicken broth had been downed (the other three-fourths poured down the drain while no one was looking), Sandy and Kirsten had had three chats about their children between three sessions of intercourse, and Ryan had stumbled up the stairs, half-asleep, to join his foster brother in slumber.

* * *

tbc. 


End file.
